Fire is Catching
by ilovemythoroughbred
Summary: Right before Mockingjay epilogue. Peeta & Katniss begin to grow back together, but Katniss realizes she is meant to be with Gale. Katniss/Gale. Spoilers. FINISHED — Thank you all for the wonderful reviews!
1. Fire

If we burn, you burn with us.

If we burn, you burn with us.

If we burn, you burn with us.

And burn they did. As my arrow shot President Coin in the heart, more wood was added to the fire. The sickening laughter that followed was President Snow's — who keeled over moments later, rather by the blood he choked up or the twisted irony of it all. But, the fire kept burning, a blistering heat, not any like the comforting glow of the embers in the fireplace in District 12.

District 12. Already burned, far before the Capitol blew up in flames. It was only after I had been rescued from the Quarter Quell did I learn that my beloved district was nothing but rubble and cinders. Gale had told me. I had not only lost Gale with the star crossed lovers act, Peeta when I was busted out of the arena, but now my home. All to fire.

But, a mockingjay flies in fire. Smoke does not daze the majestic bird, rather, clothe it's body and wings. And I was the Mockingjay.

I was the Mockingjay. But, no longer, no more. My days in the dank, claustrophobic bunkers of District 13 had passed, endless days negotiating in Command. I had already fought my way through the Capitol streets, dodging pods and avoiding the cameras. I was no longer Soldier Everdeen, now just a mere citizen of what was left of Panem.

And what was left of Panem, really? The Capitol had been reconstructed, after the bombs were dropped — oh, the bombs that killed my dear, dear Prim — the government salvaged into the republic that Plutarch had hoped for. Indeed, life had become better. The Capitol still was home of luxury and extravagance, the outrageous styles and odd traditions. But, it no longer seemed foreign to me, after my trips into the Hunger Games and the rebellion. I could only hope the rest of Panem felt the same.

The districts themselves meshed together. The strict borders no longer existed, and officially, there were no districts labeled by numbers, though everybody still identified them as such. Each region no longer provided their set resource to the Capitol, rather, the areas that produced what they could, did. The shores were home to fishing, the rolling hills adept to orchards and agriculture. Some mines remained in District 12, but by far, the cinders had been plowed into the ground as the district of miners became home to farmers.

The Victor's Village was still there, though it had lost it's stiff title. Just another line of homes, similar to the rest of them that were scattered along all the districts. The bombs had obliterated nearly all of the homes throughout Panem. And with the homes, had been the memories and the belongings of all of the citizens, who watched their nation burn. Fire.

Fire is catching. How many people had I heard that from throughout this whole thing? And how many of those people had died because of that fire? That unstoppable, fierce spark had destroyed almost all I had loved. That flame had singed me.

And besides me, it had burned Peeta. What Snow had done to him after I had blown out the arena, rescued by the rebels, was torturous and cruel, almost irreversible. The littlest of things could bring about the attacks — he would clutch the chair, or the wall, screaming and wailing as the memories of all they had done to him replayed, and replayed, and replaying — and sometimes they would last for hours. The effects still lasted for me, as well. I woke up frequently from nightmares and the scent of roses still chokes me up.

As for Gale, he had left the charred remains of District 12. Perhaps he couldn't bear to see our hunting grounds in their charcoal colored state. Maybe it was the sight of the Hob, crumpled like a child's toy. He had left for District 2. Maybe it was me.

My mother, too, had not bothered to return to our home. After Prim's death, I worried she would fall into the depression she had with my father. I was not the one to push her away this time. Slowly, we grew apart. The phone calls grew longer and longer apart, the words exchanged between us meaningless and stiff.

Greasy Sae still came to visit. She had adopted a few of the Capitol recipes, filling the need for District 12's resident chef quickly. Delly, too, would come, speaking of her new life in the Capitol as an elected official of Plutarch's republic. I expected her too good and too weak for the government, but she had been quite popular with the voters.

I still saw Haymitch and Hazelle, too. As the districts slowly repaired themselves, Hazelle had assigned herself the task of helping Haymitch recover from the insufferable damage years in the Hunger Games had done to him. It was not only his home she had cleansed, or his alcoholism she cured (how, I still don't know). It was his heart that she eventually mended. Their wedding was the first in the rebuilt 12. I was able to dig out some of Cinna's dresses for Hazelle, and all the former 12 residents were able to throw a phenomenal dancing party for her.

Annie was another I had managed to keep in contact with. Losing Finnick had wreaked havoc for her, the poor unstable girl with the wild, green eyes. She had moved to 12 briefly, along with Johanna, to join among those of the Star Squad. But, it was the sea she missed, the gentle tides she craved. She left for the shorelines of Panem, while Johanna left for her familiar forests at the same time. Beetee had stayed in the Capitol, working along Plutarch in the communications department.

As for the fame I had gathered during my stint as the Mockingjay, it had quieted down. My mental breakdown had convinced Plutarch that occasionally filming updates on the Mockingjay would push me over the edge. Somehow, I still think he wanted to protect me. Still viewed me as the face of the rebellion.

And then there was what was left of Peeta and I. After he planted the primroses, he began to spend more time over at my house. He would bake, I would hunt. Life started to resemble something a little more recognizable, a little more familiar. Water … had met the fire.


	2. Fuego

"Rabbit?" he asked as I quietly slipped through the door, crouching on hunter's feet. His face was scrunched up as he carefully frosted the roses of a cake, smears of flour across his cheeks.

"You guessed it," I replied, smiling a little. We had repaired each other, piece by piece. I set aside the skinned rabbits, for a moment wishing I had Gale to skin them with. "It feels weird not having to dodge the Peacekeepers bringing kill in anymore."

He wiped the flour and icing off of his forehead. "The Capitol was only trying to protect you, back then."

I paused. "Trying to protect us? From what? Peeta, we were starving!" I looked over at him, as he slowly, painstakingly carving intricate patterns into the cake.

"There was plenty of plants in the district itself," he replied.

My muscles tensed. "You can't survive on plants. There wasn't enough to feed my mother, Prim and I, or the Hawthornes."

He didn't even bother to look up. "I'm just saying. The Capitol made those rules to protect people."

What bothered me was how casually he kept repeating it. How casually he kept defending the Capitol. Did he not remember the fight against them? Did he not share the rage for the utter control Snow and his totalitarian ways believed they had to have?

"Guess you should have called for a ceasefire over that," I muttered, clenching my fists.

For once, he looked up. His blue eyes had long since lost the hazed, foggy glow the hijacking had left him with, but now, they burned with a fierce sharpness. "Are you saying you don't have any problem with all of the people — all the people that you, yes, you — killed during the rebellion?"

I was speechless. "Don't talk to me about the people I killed!" I screamed. "Don't tell me about that! You didn't lose Prim! You didn't lose the one person you were sure you loved!"

Peeta slammed down the frosting tip. "My family was killed in those bombs! My family, Katniss! You had people to come home to, I had nothing!"

"You had me!" I shrieked. I swept off the recipes he had stacked on the counter, scattering the papers to the floor.

"No, I didn't have you," he growled, stepping towards me. "I had all the memories that Snow had hijacked. You don't know what I went through! The abuse. You don't know, Katniss! It wasn't my fault! I wouldn't have been hijacked if it was up to me. It was you who left me in the arena! You left me there. To die. You left me there to be finished off!"

I stared back. "I didn't know about the rebel plans! I was concerned about proving to Snow that I loved you, Peeta. I wouldn't have left you there if I had a choice. And I didn't have a choice."

"Your dear rebels," he replied, slamming his palm against the countertop. "Guess they weren't your friends, then, were they?"

"The rebels rescued you!" I hollered. It was all I could do to resist from injuring him right on the spot.

"Did they, Katniss? Because I'm not the same person I was back then. I wanted to fight for you. I thought you were something more, something beautiful! But, instead, you are manipulative and mean, and dark, and a killer. You are a murderer."

The faces of those I had watched come to their ends flood my mind. "That time is over now! Panem is different now! I'm different now! My only goal was to keep you alive!"

"Well, I'm alive. Did you want to hurt me beyond repair in the process?" He ripped off his apron, raking his nails across his palms. "Why did you hurt me?"

I stood there, the anger, the fire, burning through me. The dandelion that Peeta had handed to me, those days ago, just wood to the fire. The bread he had tossed me, just another thing to burn. The fire is devouring what I felt for Peeta, devouring the relationship, the healing we had rebuilt. As Panem burned, so did we. But as Panem rebuilt, the fire caught again. Fire never stops.

"I can't believe you defended the Capitol," I said after a while. "This whole year, I have suffered more loss then I would ever wish to feel my entire life. I can't believe you would defend the people who killed my sister. The bombs that shattered my little duck. The bombs that burned the one person I know I loved."

Peeta says nothing for a while, just looks around the room, not bothering to meet my intense gaze. "I hate you. Real or not real?" He finally asks.

"Real," I reply. "Real."


	3. Fuoco

The days after Peeta and I's argument, I made a point to live revengefully. Apparently, Peeta had told something of the fight to Haymitch, who had paid a long overdue visit the next day.

"Sweetheart," he began, arranging himself on the couch in my living room. He was significantly more sober, now, and definitely more well groomed. "We … I … I'm sorry. About, uh, Peeta."

I stared defiantly back at him. "And?"

"All couples … have fights," he continued. He searched around the room, around the meaningless objects, trying to grasp his words. "It's … alright. To disagree. It's alright to argue."

I leaned back. Suddenly, I knew what he was getting at. "We were the star crossed lovers of District 12. District 12 is gone, Haymitch. And so are we. I can't live with someone who's going to defend the Capitol. They killed Prim."

Haymitch bit his lip, crossing his knees, then uncrossing them, then crossing them once again. "It was the rebel bombs that killed Prim," he replied after a bit. "Not the Capitol."

I spoke quickly. "It was the Capitol who arranged the children into the pens. To protect Snow," tears began to well up in my eyes, the sensation of the heavy fur we had all donned on that day coming back. "The Capitol left the children to die, and Prim went in to help. If the children weren't there, Prim would still be here. With me."

Haymitch glanced at the floor. "Sweetheart," he repeated, awkwardly raising his arms for a hug. "I'm sorry … I shouldn't have brought that up."

"I need to get over it," I continued to sob. "She's gone. My little duck is gone. I still wait for her to come home from school, Haymitch. I still expect to see her around the house. But, she's never there. She never will be." The tears choke up from my abdomen, hearty and genuine.

Haymitch begins to comfort me, unsure of how to string his words together, careful to create a string of flowers, not the rope of nooses Prim and I tied so long ago. "It might not ever get easier," he started. "But, you can learn to live with it. You can learn to cherish, not grieve. It will get better."

I closed my eyes, still sniffling. "Every time I catch sight of that primrose outside, I really want to kill him."

Haymitch nodded. "Let's do the next best thing. Let's rip out the bush and burn it."

I stifled my tears, quickly brushing them out of my eyes, blinking the redness away. I followed him outside, as we bashed the poor bush with a shovel, ripping it's roots apart, setting it ablaze. Peeta's words — declaring he hated me — still burned in my mind, as the fire grew. I trotted upstairs to grab the book of memories we had collaborated on, and slowly picked through the pages.

Most of them were about Prim, my dear, sweet Prim. Some of them were of District 13, the way the cabins shook during the bombings. Others retold of the 74th Hunger Games, or of the Quarter Quell. When I saw something of him, I ripped the pages out of the book. Returning to the fire, I dropped in the collection of pages, watching the memories burn. Watching him burn.

As the last of the embers blackened to char, I said goodbye to Haymitch. Shuffling back into the house, I locked the door, and curled up on the couch, cradling the phone in my hand. I knew Gale's number, over in District 2. But, so much had changed. Was a call worth it?

It was worth it. I slowly dialed in the number, carefully, so unlike how I did everything else. My fingers grazed the keys with a select delicacy, painstakingly. Hesitantly, I held the phone up to my ear.

"Katniss?"


	4. Feuer

"Katniss …" Gale began. His voice was full, heartfelt, so utterly warm and comforting.

"I … I'm not even sure why I called," I quickly stumbled through my words. "I shouldn't have bothered you."

"No! I mean, no, no, I'm glad you called. Really. It's been such a long while since we've talked. Such a long time since …" I could hear his own hesitation, deciding whether or not to mention Prim. He withheld his breath for a moment, and decided against it. "It's really, really nice to hear from you."

"You too," I replied, taking in a deep breath, letting it slip swiftly out of my nose. "How's District Two?"

I could almost hear him smile from the other end. "Not anything at all like Twelve," he concluded. "It's different, though. Not bad. People are much nicer now, after the rebellion and all. I work in the Nut, now. Help with the government of the district, which mostly provides stone goods, now. Sometimes I like to tell people that we provide headstones for the entire nation."

I let out a small chuckle. Gale spoke with more effort and articulation, than I remembered, but perhaps that was just the flame of the rebellion settling into a warm blaze rather then a destructive inferno. He sounded like himself, though, happy. I was glad.

"District Twelve is now a bunch of farmers. Everything's been cleaned up, you wouldn't recognize it now," I said. I pulled a pillow into my lap, suddenly anxious for any reply.

"I'm thinking of visiting soon," he said. "You know, coming back, seeing Haymitch and Hazelle. And you, of course. I … I really want to see you."

I clutched the pillow, pressing into my chest. "I really want to see you, too."

I could only hear the end of his breaths on the other side of the line. "I miss you," I suddenly blurted out.

The breaths continued. I gripped the pillow even harder, tugging at the frayed edges, plucking at the threads. Why, why did I just say that?

At the other end, I could make out the sound of him brushing his brown hair out of his eyes. "I miss you too, Katniss," he finally replied.

I was at a loss for words. What else was I supposed to say? Gale likely thought I was just mourning Prim. He probably expected Peeta to be right beside me, ready to comfort me from the unbearable loss I still hadn't come to terms with.

Peeta. I was so angry at him, so full of fire from what he had said. I couldn't take it, the idea that he could understand the horrible being that killed my sister. Everything had changed with the rebellion, and his hijacking, but it wasn't something I'd ever expect to hear from. Something I wasn't ready to hear from him. Or anybody.

"You still there?" Gale asked. Maybe my silence was an unnerving to him as the thoughts were to me.

"Yea," I answered quietly. "Still here."

He let out a sigh. "Good. I was thinking of coming down to District 12 sometime soon, and well, maybe I should pick a date. You know, see my mother, Haymitch. You."

"I'd like that," I replied. A little too stiff for me, the words too formal for me. They were not the quiet footsteps of a hunter, they were the loud, crashing steps of an elephant. "I mean, I think you should definitely come. We can go hunting together … it hasn't been the same without you."

"Somehow, ripping the skin off rabbits isn't as fun?" he chuckled. I smiled, remembering all of the endless laughs and guffaws we had exchanged out in the woods, at everything from Effie's uptight Capitol accent to the silly way that the chipmunks puffed out their cheeks.

This was more like the conversations of before the Hunger Games, before the rebellion. The easy chat that Peeta and Caesar Flickerman had been able to toss back and forth. The effortless way that the words would slip out of my mouth and be accepted by his ears, and vice versa. The easiness of it all.

"And the deer, oh god, the deer," I made a fake vomiting sound. Boggs flooded back to my mind, the memory of him carrying me back from a failed mission, the vomit spilling onto his jacket. The rebellion had left me so many memories. So many fires to put out.

And so, so many things left to burn.


	5. Feu

**AN: I changed the chapter names — you might have noticed, they're all 'Fire' translated into different languages. Just wanted to clear that up! Also, thank you all for your kind and helpful reviews. Reading them really leaves me motivated to keep writing!**

The train station left me feeling completely exposed. I kept to the edges, a hunter's instinct, not at all comfortable with out the security of the walls. I could see people taking peeks at me as they moseyed across the train station. Some of them clutched to the hands of small children, whispering "See her, honey? That's the mockingjay. She's the reason we're free," as they rushed to catch a train.

It warmed my heart to know in light of all those that I had put to death, the future of the children of Panem was safe. Never would a mother worry, every year, as she wondered if it would be her children that would be forced to kill. Never would a sibling cry, as they watched their brother or sister be stabbed in the heart. Never would a choked up child cry as they stepped up to the stage, victim as a tribute.

And it wasn't just me that was to thank for it. In fact, what use was I really, as a mentally disoriented, terrified seventeen year old girl? How instrumental was I? Compared to Gale, selflessly throwing himself on the front line. Or Haymitch, spending hours (even if drunk) contemplating the wisest battle strategy, trying to deal with sacrificing his team to save others. Or Plutarch, manning the broadcasting of a secretive rebellion group. Or even Peeta, winding his words together in delicate strings to move nations.

Peeta. As the days passed, I started to regret the words I had spat out at him as he mindlessly defended my sister's killer. He knew the pain I suffered from Prim's death, the tears that could easily be sprung from my eyes even with just the sight of an evening primrose. He knew I was in no position to argue over who, or what, really killed her. And yet, he still provoked the fight. I couldn't help but hate him for that, even if his words still rang in my head.

At the same time, he was my partner in the arena. Not the stealth hunting companion that Gale was, effortlessly watching my back and protecting me, but a steady, quiet shoulder to force me to slow down and think. Which, in the Games, was probably part of the reason I was able to make it out alive. What would have happened if Gale had been there? What sort of reckless things would I have done?

Thankfully, the real world was not the vicious Hunger Games (at least now that the rebellion is over). It was only a matter of time before Peeta would have blown up at me for something. How long can a flower resist a mighty inferno? How long does it take until the flame is just too hot to stand? But, fire, when it meets more fire, it just grows. How dangerous can two blazes be together? How much will they burn, leave reduced to charcoal and cinders?

I looked around the train station, recovering from my thoughts, kicking at the thin layer of cinders that did indeed cover the floor. It climbed onto my boots, clinging to the worn leather. I couldn't stand the collection of clothes and shoes I had found in the Victor's Village house. They fit fine, and the fabrics were exquisite. But, they were not mine, they were too out of place on my figure. I had gained little weight from the bare bones food of the District 13 days, and the shaped fabrics clung in all the wrong places.

But, I did feel the least bit self concious, waiting for Gale in my well loved (not old!) leather boots, rumpled pants and black fitted, shirt. I pulled at one of the threads, smoothing down the wrinkles irritatedly.

"Little late for that, Catnip," someone called behind me. I whipped around, poised for attack, but found Gale's face instead. I ran up to him, perhaps a bit too excitedly, squeezing him in a quick hug.

"Bit excited to see me, eh?" he replied, grinning. He nudged my shoulder, and I reached to push back a strand of my hair, wrapped in one of my signature braids. He was lucky — I had taken the time to clean myself up, working through the torn and damaged strands of singed hair, pare away the long nails, — I had tried to look just the least bit attractive.

But, for what use? Fire will burn, whether you look good or not.


	6. Fogo

Gale paused for a moment, surveying the new train station. Indeed, it was different from what he remembered of District 12. The train tracks had been replaced, no longer rusty slabs of metal, leftover from the Dark Days, rather sleek, steel discs that brought even higher high speed trains carrying the new residents of District 12 and the goods they needed. The train station itself was modest, but greatly improved. The people who stepped off the trains were far greater in number, as well, heading to their new homes and new jobs. Who would have ever thought people from the Capitol would come to District 12 for a job?

A small bag slipped from Gale's fingers as he stood, awestruck. I bent down to retrieve it, meeting his gaze as he did the same. He secured his fingers over it before mine, flashing me a smile. I returned it, watching his arm as a string of ink caught my eye.

'IF WE BURN, YOU BURN WITH US'

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to the ink.

He looked down, reaching a hand up to run through his hair. "Oh, just something I had done when I was in Two. Because of the rebellion. Because of you."

My cheeks flushed pink. I had never been much of a blusher, especially around Gale. "Never thought I'd see Mr. Gale Hawthorne with a tattoo," I teased.

He chuckled. It was still the same lighthearted laugh I remembered. "I had to remember it. It was such a big part of our lives. It's not the type of thing you just forget."

"That's for sure," I sighed. "Destruction is as fire does."

"It's an uncontrollable force, fire," he replied. "Dangerous as hell."

I nodded. He stood for a second longer, then motioned towards the door, holding it for me. I smiled once again, entering. Several heads turned as we walked in. There stood Katniss Everdeen, once the Girl on Fire, then the Mockingjay, and her cousin, Gale Hawthorne. The handsome, nearly identical cousin that seemed a bit too much like someone I'd fall for over a cousin. Fire.

Apparently, one of the starers was especially intrigued. "You're Katniss, aren't you?" the woman asked. She wore a wool coat, that hung to her knees, and a thin pair of leather shoes. She dressed like a native 12 resident, and she likely was.

"That'd be me," I answered, faking a smile. It wasn't like I was hard to miss. Few nineteen year old girls run around with their hair half burned, half chopped, or their skin still pink and tender from burns.

"I was a friend of your mother's. Every once in a while, I'd deliver some herbs for the apothecary. You were just a little girl when I saw you last," it was her turn to smile.

I nodded politely. "My mother's in District Four," I replied.

"Oh, I know," the woman responded. "Actually, it was you I was meaning to talk to. I wanted to thank you … for what you did as the Mockingjay. Just as your mother did, I lived in fear every year, wondering if my little Adeline would get picked in the reaping. I can only imagine what your mother went through, watching your little stint in the Games. But, even if you two rarely speak anymore. I know she's proud of you. You have done unspeakable things for the future of Panem, and the past and new generations like will be forever in debt. It may not have been your workings — the rebellion, that is — but it was your genuine actions that made us believe it was possible. Thank you," the woman reached three fingers to her lips as she finished, then extended them out. The District 12 salute. Love, admiration, goodbye. Because of fire.

I stammered, staring at the floor. "Thank you," I finally murmured out. What good was I, out in public, without a pretty dress to spin around in? I had no way with words, no way to inspire or authentically thank anyone without a war zone to prompt me.

Thankfully, the woman must have known this, and beamed down on me, as she slipped away through the crowds. Gale looked down, cocking his head a little. "And this … it happens a lot?"

"Unfortunately, yes," I answered. "Doesn't mean I know how to answer it yet, though."

Another chuckle. "Catnip, you know you really did do a lot for the rebellion. And for Panem —"

"I know," I interrupted. I didn't want to hear the rest, hear his thank you, when it was he who risked himself on the front line so many times. I didn't want to hear the awkwardness of thanking someone you know so well.

"Remember when you said you wouldn't have kids, not with the Hunger Games?" he paused, taking a breath. "It wasn't just you, who worried about watching their beloved taken off to fight. I worried, too."

Why, oh, why does fire burn like it does?


	7. Feier

Gale slung the bag over his shoulder, running a hand through his brown hair as he looked over 12. The electric fence we had dodged so many times no longer gave off it's signature buzz, a thin layer of coal no longer covered every surface in the village. How different it must have been for him, to come home to the only place you had known for so many years and find it so terribly different then when you left it.

"The fence," he said. Obviously it was the first thing he had noticed. "It's gone. I didn't think they'd bother taking it out. You know, keep the wild animals out."

"What difference did the fence really make?" I replied.

He nodded, smirking. "You're right, Catnip. The animals were never really our problem, here. It was always starvation."

And fire, I thought to myself. But, Gale was also right. The old District 12 residents had always been sickly thin, their skin stretched across their cheekbones and hipbones, which jutted out at odd angles. Their eyes were sullen and hazy, their gazes distant and far gone. What a pathetic bath of people we must have seemed to the Capitol during the rebellion. What good could a group of skinny, starving people do? Yet, at the same time, what was to stop us? Does pain not start fire?

Gale looked over at me. "Hunting?" he asked. It was all he needed to say. We quickly made our way to the house, where I showed him to his room and exchanged the still stiff, still uncomfortable every day shoes for the well worn hunting boots I had worn for so long. It felt wrong to wear them on the odd cement-asphalt mixed surface that now covered District 12's roads. The gentle pad of the sole felt so out of place.

It was my bow and arrows that I had missed the most. I still stored them in the tree trunk, where I was sure nobody would touch them. I had nobody to hide them from, but hunting had always been a secretive activity, and it would be all wrong to suddenly be so casual about it. As I traced the wood finish in my palm, I sighed happily. The curvature of the bow fit so comfortably in my hand, the notch of the arrows snugly sliding between my fingers as I drew the bow in practice. This was what I had missed so badly. This was what the fire had burned.

Gale hadn't forgotten how to rig snares, thankfully. The ones he had already made had been lost in the fights of the rebellion, so he sat himself on a charred tree trunk and carefully worked the wire with his hands, snaking it around in intricate designs I still had yet to master, leaving them dangerous and deadly.

We both naturally fell into place as the afternoon went on. He also hadn't forgotten how to by my eyes and ears, out in the Meadow. Without hesitation, he followed my back, observing every tree, every wispy leaf as I aimed my arrow towards the eye of a squirrel. It pierced the glossy eye, and the squirrel fell dead. Gale grabbed it by the tail, slipping into the burlap sack where we stored our catches. As our kill pile grew, we retired to the old foundation by the lake.

"You can still see the burn marks," I mentioned, my back pressed to the cool, cement wall. The tree trunks were stained with black, and the ground still looked and smelled of the fire and the dusty ashes.

"Fire is necessary, Catnip," Gale replied, emotionlessly. "You can't have rebirth without destruction."

"You don't need destruction, though," I protested.

Gale caught my gaze as I looked around the forest. "You need destruction if what you have to start with is dangerous."

"You don't need to start fires to do that."

He shook his head. "You need fire to change things. And with change, comes progress."

I remained silent, tucking my knees under my chin, securing my arms around them both. Gale rolled a few blueberries across the flat boulder we used as a table. I reached for them, slipping them in my mouth. They were sweet and rich, a welcome treat, even though the new food of 12 was deliciously filling and nutritious. It hadn't been a full stomach that I had been craving, it had been a full heart.

"I'm glad we didn't run for it," Gale said. He moved across the small foundation to the stone beside mine.

I smiled halfheartedly. "What do you think would've happened if we did?"

"Prim would have been reaped — you wouldn't have been there to volunteer for her. Your mother would have lost both of you. Prim probably would have died in the Hunger Games, lest she find the strength from you leaving to outsmart them all," at times he would close his eyes, bringing to mind a world so incredibly different from what had actually happened.

"There would be no rebellion," I said quietly.

"Nope."

"No deaths, either."

Gale narrowed his eyes. "I know you hate that people had to die, Katniss. I can't say that I feel the same way. Finnick and Boggs and everyone else — do you honestly think they were content to live in a world with the government had a say in everything? Where they were merely puppets in their own life? Fire, Katniss, fire! All of those people were soldiers. They were soldiers even if they didn't know it, or they didn't hold the title officially. They were fighting for what is better, what is right. They gave up their lives because they knew it would be better."

The tears slowly swelled in my eyes. I clenched them shut, willing them away. "Gale —" I began, my voice wobbly.

"Stop beating yourself up over this. You changed everything. For the better, for a good reason. Children are safe. Families won't be ripped apart every year. The wounds will heal, not only the physical ones but also the mental losses. The scars will remain, but they're just memories of the battle one fought. People will become happy again. And that is worth more then anything."

It was strange to hear Gale's rants turn in a whole new direction. He wasn't criticizing the Capitol anymore, because the new set up had been partly his own production. It was my fire that he was explaining.

He took a deep breath, running his hands down his olive skinned face. He looked over at me, the tears that were budding in my eyes, and drew me in a hug. "Catnip —" his voice was soft, gentle now. A warm glow from the fireplace.

"Gale," I said simply.


	8. Eld

**AN: I'm out of school for the summer! So, chapters will be longer and hopefully better written. Thanks everyone for the beautiful, kind reviews. I've said it before, but the best part of writing is sharing with people and getting feedback. That feedback really improves my writing and I'm grateful to all of you who take your time to review! Thanks again!**

"You never really recovered from the rebellion, did you?" he said quietly. Everything was quiet, outside of the old fence of 12. Only in the distance was there any noise made by humans — the sound of rebuilding. Which was, simply, Gale's justification for all of the deaths I had caused.

His reasoning was of little assurance. Every night, the nightmares tormented me. Peeta's attacks may have hunted him during waking hours, but as night fell, the time for rest, my personal horror show begun. The terrors were different every night, but they were all of death. Sometimes it was Finnick's green eyes that I watched, as the mutts ripped him apart. Sometimes it was of Boggs, having his legs blown off from the mine pod. But, it was far more painful when they were about the people who loved those who had died. Annie's sobs ringing in my ears, or Boggs' best friend tearing up. And it was me. I was the one who had brought that upon them.

I looked down at Gale's tattooed arm through tear filled eyes, wrapping my fingers across the string of ink. They covered all but one word — 'BURN'. This terrified me, horrified me, shook me with an intense kind of fear and superstition. It was my own sobs that ricocheted through the small, cement foundation. Gale met his stone gray eyes with mine, and rearranged my fingers without dropping the gaze.

When it was my turn to look down, it was another word spelled out, albeit spottily. Some letters of some words, some letters of others — 'NOT YOU'. I swallowed the last of the tears (for the moment anyway) and smiled. It was the most authentic beam that had graced my face in months. Gale noticed, as the same grin crept across his face. He broke into a laugh, and I followed. The foundation walls of the small, forgotten room were warmed with each giggle, each guffaw. Who else had laughed here, let the sound roll up from their lungs into a hearty, happy sound?

"I missed this," Gale said, the remnants of the grin still plastered across his features. I wondered how out of place he looked among the native citizens of District 4, with his dark brown hair and olive skin. But, then again, he was Gale Hawthorne. Who didn't know about the rather attractive cousin of the Mockingjay? He could probably live in President Paylor's mansion without any protest.

"Me too," I replied, falling back against the cement wall. "Not much to laugh about in a war zone."

"And there were several of those," he was quick to respond. "Between the Games, Thirteen, the actual war, I'm not sure you've had time to practice that sing-song laugh."

I blushed. What was it with Gale's visit that had left me flustered like a schoolgirl so many times?

"I remember when you sang for Boggs, when he died," Gale mentioned.

"The Hanging Tree."

"Sort of a dark song."

I nodded. "My father taught it to Prim and I. My mother was so angry, she made us swear up and down we'd never repeat those words again."

Gale studied my face, a hunter observing his prey. He parted his lips to say something, but then squinted his eyes for a second and decided against it. "I remember. If my mother had caught Rory or Posy singing it, well, she'd be livid."

"Haymitch might not, though," I continued. I scuffed at a piece of dirt, kicking it with the toe of my boot.

Gale's gaze grew distant once again. "It's still pretty hard to believe he's my stepfather."

"He's a good guy, Gale. He did so much for me in the Games and the rebellion," I defended. Part of me hated Haymitch, the sarcastic 'Sweetheart' he always called me, the general snark. But, he had also risked his life numerous times to protect me, held secrets to ensure my safety and picked me over Peeta.

Gale's eyes dropped to the ground this time. "I know, I know. He just … ah, nevermind."

I nudged his calf with my toe. "Come on, we're out here. Just say it, nobody will hear you."

"You will," he concluded, turning his head to look at me, his arms propped on his knees. "oh, what the hell. As much as I like and respect Haymitch — for what he's done for you and my mother — he reminds me of the Games."

I cocked my head. "So? They were my Games."

I could make out the sound of his teeth gritting against each other as he leaned back agains the cement, where I sat next to him. "And they were Peeta's."

"And?"

He shut his eyes, anxiously cracked his knuckles and rearranged his feet on the floor. I felt his shoulders shift against mine, the tension strung across the sinew and muscles. "Goddamn it, Katniss. I hated watching you there with him. I hated the way you protected him, and how you fought for him. The way he knew nothing about who you really were, like out here in the woods. I couldn't stand the kissing, or any of that. And when you got back, it made me physically sick to see you. All through the Quarter Quell, I hated watching the way you cared for him. The worst part? How terrified you were when he tried to kill you, but you still loved him."

My throat constricted without the help of Peeta's hands threatening to strangle me. "I didn't —"

"And then watching you be so worried about him, so caught up with everything about him. I wanted you, Katniss. When I kissed you, and when you kissed me, I was trying to tell you that. I know you were wrapped up in everything and I wasn't the forefront on your mind, but it hurt," he paused briefly, a flash of pain across his face. I felt my own face cringe, feeling the arrow puncture my own eye this time as I learned all I had put him through.

"I don't know if you heard him and I talking, when we were all in Tigris' shop. He's a great guy, he really is. And he's probably better for you, in some weird way. Oh, god. I hate putting you in this position. I don't mean to make you choose between him and I … this isn't what I was trying to do here. God, I don't even know —"

If I burn, who will burn with me?


	9. Ild

**AN: I'm not sure how much more of the story I have left to tell. This is primarily a dialogue story, as you can tell. Now that the Hunger Games/rebellion/war is over, I'm at a bit of a loss for action scenes. Simply, I've got a few more chapters left. As always, I greatly appreciate the reviews! Thank you all!**

Gale cracked his knuckles once more and stood up. His six-foot-plus frame towered higher then what was left of the foundation walls. "I'm sorry, Catnip. I didn't … I didn't mean to do that."

"Do what?" I asked. While both of our instincts when vulnerable might have been to stand up and fight, emotional conflicts left me balling myself up and trying to hide.

"All that. Every word," he took a seat on the boulder, further from where I was. He grew uncomfortable now, uneasy.

I crossed the room as well, towards the seat beside him. I snaked my hand into the burlap sack, bringing out a collection of wild strawberries and blueberries. I forced them into his hand, closing the fingers one by one. "I had a fight with Peeta, you know."

Gale shook his head. "And?" I thought for a moment how he was beginning to sound like me — but all along, he really was, and honestly had been. The cousins act might have been plausible for people who didn't know the story well, but for anyone in Twelve and anyone who had seen us together instantly knew that wasn't true. Our features were identical, and so were our minds.

"He brought up Prim. And he defended the Capitol for killing her."

Gale drew one of my hands into his own. Perhaps he expected me to burst into tears at the mention of my little sister. I expected I would, too, but through the time in the woods, the rediscovered time with Gale, I found myself healing. Each stroke of my fingertips across the wooden bow was a stroke of rejuvenation to what I had lost, each arrow shot was a regret thrown away.

"I didn't know . . ." he trailed off, suddenly uneasy again.

"Of course you didn't. It's not your fault."

He was the one to bring about the pause this time.

"We need to stop pretending," he said. "The rebellion is over. Snow is dead. I'm not lying or hiding anything for anyone. Not anymore."

I pushed against the rock with the sole of my boot. "You're right. Everything is different now."

"But, if you want to go back to Peeta, that's okay, too . . ." Gale trailed off again. His voice began undoubtedly confident, but would soon falter and waiver, before breaking. "God, forget it. I didn't mean to do that to you. I'm not trying to make you pick."

I reached for his hand. "When Peeta and I were coming home from the Games, he asked me what we should do next. I told him we should try to forget it. But, he said he didn't want to forget. That was exactly what I wanted to do, more than anything else. I was confused and emotional, but I also knew what I was talking about. This is what I didn't want to forget. Days like these, with you. With our hunting sack full and the woods rigged with your snares. With my arrows in the eye of our next meal. Where it was difficult to survive, but we had each other."

"You have choice of anybody you want, Katniss," he objected. I could tell when he was fighting himself to say something when he said 'Katniss' instead of 'Catnip'.

"You're right."

"Choose wisely."

I stared him down for a moment. There we were, together, on a boulder, in the woods outside the grounds of the fire. He stared back, his eyes dancing between a heartfelt, sterling silver grey and a cold, rock color. "You."


	10. Epilogue

The nightmares still wake me up in the middle of the night, a scream escaping my lips as the terrors rip up my spine. Some nights, I swear I can hear Peeta's screams as well, but Gale assures me it's just my imagination.

Maybe it was the screams that convinced Gale to stay. But, my bet's on that last kiss, that day in the woods. The way I picked him, because I knew it was him all along. I still think about Peeta, those days in the Hunger Games. But, what is a sixteen year old to know? When your own fire is burning, what won't you do to end it? Staring into the eyes of my maybe killers leaves one with a fair bit of adrenaline. Adrenaline is like fire, and fire never ceases to burn.

It was my own fire that I had been convinced was large enough. Turns out, the worst part about having Peeta around was worrying about burning him. That fire was so easily triggered, the smallest taunting could bring it out. Every death was another trigger, another piece of firewood, and I couldn't harness it. Some may use fire to warm themselves, but some use the same flame to burn, to destroy. And it is such a fine line between. Such a fine line indeed.

Either way, Gale's own fire had found a piece of ground, among the charred dirt of Twelve, to burn endlessly upon. The day he was to leave never came, his Hunger Games never came reaping for it's tribute. I was ecstatic. We grew back together, just as close as the original reaping, with each kill we brought down. I would never be content trapped in Twelve's civilized portions, and neither would he. Thankfully, the forest was room enough for both of us, where we could hunt all day and keep it to ourselves.

Some days when we hunt, I hear my father's melodic laugh in Gale's. The way Gale moves across the forest floor, not leaving a pine needle out of place reminds me of my father's own steps. The way he smiles at me without ever moving his mouth reminds me of my father. I missed my father, so very dearly. Truth is, what time did I have to truly, deeply grieve? The initial period after a death leaves one troubled and weak, but it is no match for the months of mental torment that follows. As my father's fire was ushered out, my own was fed. No time for a warming blaze, though, as my Hunger Games began. And we all know the mess that followed.

It was Gale that I found myself marrying months later. Tactfully, we agreed to spare Cinna's wedding dresses (those that had survived the blaze) from our wedding, in it's place, a simple, fire red frock that Cinna had hidden in the back of the closet. Gale had his own surprise for his attire, wearing a suit of my father's that fit him perfectly. My mother even made an appearance, all the way from Four, as did Annie, Johanna, Beetee and the rest of the living Star Squad. Plutarch was one of them (only because he agreed not to film it), as well as President Paylor herself. I argued for Peeta's invitation, but Gale didn't fight. The boy with the bread never showed up to the quaint ceremony, but I secretly wished he did. Perhaps the most touching part of the ceremony of all was the ceremony. Gale and I shared a piece of Peeta's bread, and sparked a fire, in which we tossed it in it.

It wasn't only that real life blaze that smoldered, but each of our internal fires. 'Fire is catching', Plutarch once told me (later, I had that quote tattooed across my arm in similar fashion to Gale's). But, it wasn't just with the end of the rebellion that saw the end of a mighty inferno. Gale and I's fires burned each other out, leaving a cozy warmth.

As the days back in the forests came back to me, so did one of my comments. If there were no Hunger Games, would I really be okay with being a mother? Was it just the annual fear of losing my child that had me against it? Certainly, it was a factor, but I couldn't find my motherly instinct, in all that fire. The warmth, yes, it was there, but how dangerous is fire to a child?

Gale wanted them, though, which surprised me. After having his own father wrenched away from him, forcing him to play the father of his family, I figured he would be scared of that sort of responsibility, given the choice. But, that very circumstance had left him knowing and wise, and craving the pitter-patter of little feet among the forest floor.

Years later, the girl and the boy pass through the threshhold of the house, where a sign with 'HAWTHORNE' lovingly carved across it hangs. They both look remarkably like those who once lived in an area called the Seam. The girl's olive skinned face, with her grey-blue eyes is framed by rich, ebony hair, hanging in perfect waves and curls. The boy's face is similar, though his skin is considerably lighter, his hair a fine mix between ebony and blonde, his features even and gentle.

The girl clutches a wad of wildflowers, a wild mix of lavenders and yellows. The boy holds to a single arrow. They move to Gale, hugging his legs, before moving to my arms for a hug. I make sure to let them know how much they mean to me with every squeeze. That Gale and I will always be here.

Someday, we will tell them about the Hunger Games. They learn about it in the school, along with the rebellion, but they will learn from us before. It is a part of not only Panem history, but of the Hawthorne family. They will learn that the meadows they frolic in were once a mass grave, that the ground they tread is where millions were killed. They will learn that the Capitol seal they see on television would once strike terror and anger into the country's citizens.

I am proud to have been a part of the rebellion, now that it is over. Proud to know that mothers, just like myself, can sleep knowing their children will never be taken from them. That their children will never be used to satisfy somebody else's fire.

Fire might be one of the most destructive forces I may ever witness in my life, more forceful then electricity blowing out a forcefield, or an annual games of children fighting each other to death. But, as the wind whips outside, pressing the frozen snowflakes to the glass windows, it is fire that keeps us warm. One last time before I go to sleep, I check the windows for any poor child stuck out there in this blizzard. Any poor being who could use a loaf of bread, even if it's burnt, or a warm place to stay. Anyone who might need the help of fire.

Fire might be catching. But, we are here to hold it.


End file.
